New 
Years Eve l979


Once, years ago,
I complained to Basha of boredom.
"I 
don't know what people do,"
 she said
"besides read, write and work 
for
Socialist revolution."
 
The people I have loved
live serious 
lives
full of laughter.
Not raucous,
hollow,
but the laughter of the 
witness,
the scribe,
interchangeable with tears.

I think about Basha,
and 
laughter,
and revolution
as the silver ball crashes.
Standing on the 
precipice
of a bloody decade,
not wishing otherwise
but nonetheless 
afraid,
I think of the Jew being carried to the gas chamber
shouting to 
those left behind
"Write everything down!"